Chapter 9 — Walking Between the Lines
The room was white. Endless. Sterile. The kind of white that made every sound I made echo like a shout. Puck yelped behind me—well, yelped might be generous; he sounded like a cat choking on its own tail. Valerius was rigid, rapier drawn, wings stretched as if she could slice reality itself.
And Marrow stood there, hands clasped behind his back, as calm as if he'd been waiting in a cozy sitting room instead of this… void.
"Margins," he said, voice low, resonant, almost musical. "The spaces between what is demanded and what is allowed. What you see, and what you leave unseen."
I frowned, gripping the bookmark in my coat. "I still don't get it. You talk like it's some kind of cheat code."
He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It isn't cheating. It's choice. Control. Understanding the story so it doesn't control you."
I glanced at Valerius. She raised a brow. "And how do we know you aren't controlling it? Or us?"
Marrow's smile didn't falter. "You don't. And that's the point. You learn the margins, you learn to bend the story without it noticing. But the first lesson isn't bending—it's observing."
I hated this already. Observing didn't sound dangerous, but it always was.
He gestured, and a faint shimmer appeared in the air. Lines, thin and delicate, stretched across the room like spiderwebs. "These are threads. Every action, every choice, leaves a mark. You see them when you learn to look. The Curator sees the threads he wants. You… see the ones he doesn't."
The Shard hummed. It pulsed against my chest, insistent, impatient. I could feel it resonate with the lines, almost guiding my gaze along them.
"First exercise," Marrow said. "Follow the thread that isn't obvious. Ignore the dominant ones. Those are traps of expectation. Walk between them. Find the unseen."
I swallowed, shifting my weight. Puck growled low. Valerius's wings twitched nervously. This was abstract. Dangerous. And exactly the kind of lesson that could kill you if you made a mistake.
"Okay," I said finally. "How do I know which ones are… the right ones?"
Marrow's eyes glimmered. "You don't. You feel. You learn. You survive mistakes."
I frowned. "Mistakes?"
"Of course. Every margin you claim comes with risk. The Curator notices anomalies. Some survive. Some… don't."
Lovely. A training exercise that might kill me.
I stepped forward, the white floor underfoot unnaturally solid despite the void around me. The threads shimmered faintly. One path in particular seemed to pulse subtly, like it was breathing. I glanced at Valerius. She didn't say anything. Just nodded slightly. That was trust in her own way.
I reached toward it. My fingers brushed a thread—and instantly, the world shifted. Not violently, not like a trap, but subtly, almost like looking at a reflection that didn't match reality. The thread moved under my touch, curving, curling, branching into new spaces.
"Good," Marrow said. "You felt it. You understood it exists. Now—step further."
I swallowed, stepping along the path. Each step felt like walking on glass. The threads shimmered underfoot, but I noticed the subtle gaps between them. Margins. The spaces he had been talking about.
"You can move without being noticed," Marrow said. "You can bend perception. You can hide action within inaction. But it requires precision. Patience. And trust in your own senses."
I took another step. The Shard hummed stronger, almost urging me forward. I realized it wasn't just guiding me—it was testing. Testing if I could notice subtle opportunities. Testing if I could survive ambiguity.
"Stop." Marrow's voice broke through my focus. "Now, look behind you."
I froze. Slowly, I turned. The path I'd just walked shimmered faintly, lines fading into indistinct white. There were echoes of threads left behind—slightly curved, slightly imperfect. Mistakes. Small, almost invisible. The Curator would notice them eventually. Perhaps. Perhaps not.
"You see that?" Marrow asked. "That is the margin you've claimed. It is yours, but it is not secure. You must move carefully. Every choice leaves a mark. Every mark can be traced."
I swallowed. "And if I fail?"
"Then you become a footnote," he said softly. "Or worse. You vanish without record."
The weight of his words sank in. Margins weren't just about survival. They were about existence. Claiming them was claiming life itself.
I took a deep breath and stepped forward again. This time, I moved deliberately, feeling the threads underfoot, noting their gaps. I shifted slightly, bent my posture, adjusted the timing of my steps. Each movement was mirrored by faint pulses from the Shard. I could feel the margin forming around me.
Puck snorted. "You look ridiculous."
I ignored him. Valerius, however, finally spoke. "You're doing it. Carefully. But the room changes with every step. He can't teach this like a trick; you have to feel it."
I nodded. The Shard pulsed stronger. Awareness. Guidance. Encouragement. I realized it had been waiting for me to take this step—to claim the first margin for myself.
Marrow clapped softly. "Well done. But that was only the first lesson. Margins exist in every moment. Choice, action, restraint. Every word, every movement. The Curator prizes the obvious. You, Arthur Vane, will prize the invisible."
I frowned. "Invisible how? I can't see him, I can't predict him. He's… everywhere."
Marrow smiled. "Exactly. You claim space where he is not looking. You leave traces that matter to you, but he cannot erase. That is power. That is survival."
I took a deep breath, feeling the hum of the Shard, the faint glow of the threads, the warmth of the bookmark in my coat. Everything was connected. Not easy. Not safe. But mine, if I wanted it.
Valerius's voice was quiet now. "You'll need time, Arthur. This isn't just skill—it's instinct."
I nodded again, swallowing hard. "Time I don't have."
Marrow's eyes glimmered with something faintly dangerous. "Then you start now. Every moment is an opportunity. Every margin you claim strengthens you. Every mistake… teaches you."
I stepped forward once more, threads bending underfoot, the room stretching around me. I realized something terrifying and exhilarating at the same time: every choice I made, every margin I claimed, was my story now. Mine to shape. But it wasn't safe. Never safe. And the Curator would notice eventually.
"Good," Marrow said, fading slightly at the edges, like smoke. "You will need to practice. Alone. Observe. Claim. Hide. And remember: the margin is your only friend."
The white room began to dissolve. Slowly, the forest returned around us. The familiar weight of trees, the earthy smell, the faint rustle of wind. Puck yelped again, tail bristling, as if we'd been gone for days. Valerius blinked, rapier still ready.
I clutched the bookmark, now warm again. The Shard hummed faintly, approving. Not safe. Not easy. But mine.
And for the first time, I realized that surviving the Curator might not be about fighting him. It might be about learning to exist between the lines.